3531 
13 N5 
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The Wings : A Drama in 
One Act : by Josephine 
Preston Peabody. 



Samuel French : Publisher 

28-30 West Thirty-eighth St. : New York 

LONDON 

Samuel French, Ltd. 

26 Southampton Street, Strand 
PRICE TWENTY-FIVE CENTS 



The Wings : A Drama in 
One Act : by Josephine 
Preston Peabody. 



Samuel French : Publisher 

28-30 West Thirty-eighth St. : New York 

LONDON 

Samuel French, Ltd. 

36 Southampton Street, Strand 



j5^\/ 






Revised. 1917. by Josephine Preston Peabody 
Copyright. 1917, by Josephine Preston Peabody 



/ 



APR -9 1917 



Caution.— This play is fully protected under the 
Copyright laws of the United States and is sub- 
ject to royalty when produced by amateurs or 
professionals. Applications for the right to pro- 
duce " The Wings " should be made to Samuel 
French, 28 West 38th St.. New York. 



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

©CI.D 46605 



L 



" The Wings " was produced at the Toy Theatre, 
Boston, January 15, 191 2. 

All acting rights are reserved by the author. 



THE WINGS. 
DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Cerdic. 

^LFRic the King. 

Brun. 

Edburga. 



Time : — Northumbria before 700 a.d. 

THE WINGS 
By Josephine Preston Peabody 



TOY THEATRE 
Jan. 15, 1912 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Cerdic Mr. Churchill 

^lfric the King Mr. Rawson 

Brun Master Pellegrini 

Edburga Mrs. Briggs 

NORTHUMBRIA BEFORE 700 A.D. 

Scene designed by Mr. Livingston Platt. 



THE WINGS 



{The SCENE passes zvithin a low hut, Saxon-built. 
At back, a small zvindozv-space, and, centre a 
doorway, past which the seabirds fly in a gray 
light. — Against the right wall, a seat and a 
shelf with one or tzvo great books, a half-loaf 
of bread, and a lamp without a light. Near by, 
a large unlighted lantern. — On the left wall, a 
rude wooden cross; below it, a bench with a 
slab of stone upon it, covered over; mallet, 
chisel and other tools. Also to the left, a low 
door, now shut, leading to an inner cell. — Twi- 
light of a bleak day) 

{Enter Brun the fisher-boy, doubtfully. He looks 
from bench to books, and shakes his head. 
There appears on the threshold behind him the 
figure of a woman, Edburga, in a long cloak. 
Brun, when he turns, waves her back with a 
gesture of warning entreaty.) 

Brun. 

No more, but wings and wings! And still no 

light. 
He is not here, for all the night be wild. 
The \yind cries out; — there will be broken 

wings, 
And they do vex him, ever. Nay, forbear I 

(Edburga stands in the doorway.) 
5 



6 THE WINGS. 

Gudewife, forbear! Ye may not step within. 

He is not here, although the door stood wide ; 

See you, the holy Cerdic is not here. 
Edburga. 

Where, then? 
Brun. 

God wot ! 'Twill be a mickle hap 

That holds him fast; and no light litten yet. 

The light is wanting. — Do not come within; 

Bide yonder. 
Edburga. 

Wherefore? Wit ye who am I? 

(He shakes his head. She draws aside veil and 
wimple, discovering a young face and long 
braids of red-gold hair; then she steps in arro- 
gantly, to his dumb distress. While he replies 
in abashed singsong to her questions, she looks 
about her with something between scorn and 
curiosity. ) 

Deem ye the holy Cerdic hides away? 
Or that I come for naught? — What art thou 
called ? 

Brun. 

Brun, son of Wulfstan. . . . 

Edburga. 

And what dost thou here? 

Brun. 

Ye bade me lead you hither from the shore, 
See you ; — therefore I came. Often I come. 
Likewise to bring the holy Cerdic bread, 
And tidings from the Abbey. ... Ye can hear 
Our bell, save when the wind will be too high, 
At vesper-time and curfew. — He would fast. 
Ye wit, till he were like the lanthorn yonder, 
As ye could see a light through, if let be! 
Then I row hither, or across the bar 



^' ' THE WINGS. 7 

I come here at low water, and bring bread. — 

And if I did not, sure the Angel would. 
Edburga. 

Sooth ! 
Brun. 

All folk say. Once I lay by to watch, 

Till nigh I heard it coming. For I dread 

Some day the Angel seize me by the hair!— 

Lady, ye wit no woman can be here, 
'^ In holy Cerdic's cell. 
Edburga. 

Was this thy dread? 

And dare no townsfolk come? 
Brun. 

Save they be sick 

And sore possest, no higher than the door ! 

But ye have come within. Pray now, go forth ! 
Edburga ( stealthily ) . 

And I, worn weary, I must forth again 

Into the wet, for that I am a Woman ? 
Brun. 

Needs must ye take it ill to be a woman. 

But see, there is a tree to shelter by, 

A dark tree yonder, hard upon the dune. — 

Forsooth, all womankind he should mislike; 

And beyond that, men say it was a woman 

Drove Cerdic from the King. 
Edburga. 

Men say? . . . What men? 
Brun. 

Sooth, did ye never hear ? 
Edburga. 

What do men say? 
Brun. 

It was for chiding the King's light-o'-love, — 

I wot not who, no more than ye ; — 
Edburga. 

Her name 

Is called Edburga. 



8 THE WINGS. ' "^ 

Brun. 

Ay, an evil woman ! 

She was it, brought misUke upon the King, 
And Cerdic bade him leave her. — And the King 
Would not ; but still she wasteth all his days, 
And, for her sake, he hath no mind to wed. 
And he was wroth ; and, likewise for her sake, 
He drove the holy Cerdic from the town. — 
But Cerdic found our island. And they tell. 
His faring here must bring a blessing down. — 

Edburga. 

Ay, hath it fallen yet? Methought the isle 
Looked bare enough, and starven ! 

Brun. 

Nay, not yet. 

But likewise there are curses in the court; 
And men cry out on ^Ifric. — Wit ye well, 
Their longing is for Cerdic home again. 

Edburga. 

And Cerdic, will he hence? When the King 

comes, 
With shining gifts! (Befzveen her teeth.) 

Brun. 

If he put her away, 

It may be . . . See you, Cerdic is so holy, 
They tell he will not look upon a woman 
When he must speak with them. But I'm a 

man: 
I talk with him, and look. And so I too 
Would not have spoke with ye, but that ye 

came 
To ask the way 

Edburga. 

Unto that holy man. . . . 

Yea, truly! I would see and speak with 

Cerdic. 
Ye deem he cometh hither soon? 

Brun. 

God wot! 



^ THE WINGS. 9 

He hath a Book here that he reads upon ; 
Likewise he knoweth how to grave on stone, 
With pictures hke to frost. But oftentimes 
All day he standeth on the rocks, adream, 
So stark the sea-birds have no fear of him, 
But graze his face in flying. So, belike, 
It is a Vision that doth keep him now ; 
For still the light is ever lit, by now. 
He will be coming. ... Ye must bide beyond. 

Edburga. 

Go thou. And I will follow to thy tree. 
There to sit down . . . and pray . . . till I 

behold 
Thy holy Cerdic coming. — Have no fear ! 
See : I will wrap my mantle round "my hair. 
As holy men would have us do. — Such peril, — 
And dear enchantment, in a woman's hair! 
So : 'tis my will to stand thus in the wind, 
Now, while the sun sets, and until the Fiend 
That rends me, have his own; or Cerdic 

Brun. 

Woe! 

The Fiend! — 

Edburga. 

That dwells in Woman : thou hast said. 

Brun. 

Woe that I brought ye here to Cerdic's cell ! 

Edburga (undoing a scarf from her neck). 

Nay, thou wilt never rue it.— Take this scarf 
So, knotted thrice, — unto the farthest rock. 
Where thou shalt bind it to that only bush, — 
The thorn thou shewedst me ; and so let hang 
That the sea- winds may sift and winnow it. 
This if thou do — and look not back again, — 
And say thy prayer, likewise, for holy 

Cerdic ! — 
There shall no hurt come nigh thee from the 

Fiend. — 
But I must bide by yonder starven pine, 



lo THE WINGS. n 

Till Cerdic pass, ... to shrive me. 
Brun (terrified). 

Ay, go hence ! 

There doth he bless the sick. 
Edburga. 

I follow thee. 

And may the saints forgive it to this — saint, 

There stepped upon his threshold one poor 
woman, 

Seeing he knew not! — I will after thee. 
Brun. 

Nay, do not ! Sooth, I will as ye have said. 

Edburga. 

Never look back! 
Brun (terrified). 

By holy Guthlac, never! 

When ye are shriven . . . take the self -same 
way 

Back to the shore. ... 

(Running out.) 

God shield the holy Cerdic ! 
Edburga (alone, stretching out her arms with sav- 
age relief.) 
God crush the holy Cerdic, with His shield ! 

(She looks about her, between curiosity and aver- 
sion; then begins to sing with exuberant defi- 
ance of the place. ) 

If the moon were mine 

For a silver cup. 

Ah, but I would fill it up 
With red wine, red wine ! 
Then, O love of mine. . . . 

(She stops singing as she comes to the bench with 
the covered stone, and draws near to look, as 



r THE WINGS. II 

if it fascinated and repelled her; then she turns 
away, silent. From the doorway, she seems to 
listen; then calls through her hands in a soft, 
high voice, like the wind.) 

^Ifric ... the King! (Exit Edburga) 

(The door blows shut after her. Deep twilight 
falls. There is a pause, filled with the crying 
of wind and of seagulls. Then the low door 
in the left wall opens, and Cerdic gropes his 
way in, carrying a taper. He is a young monk 
with the keen face of a mystic, worn white 
with fatigue. He seems half tranced.) 

Cerdic. 

The darkness here. . . . Need be, I fell asleep. 
Sleep, sleep for me, and in the daytime! — Ah, 
The little sleep! Could I not watch one hour? 
Yea, Lord, for all the hours of day and night ; 
Save that in sleep, the wings stoop near to me 
I grasp for vainly, waking. . . . Was it sleep? 
Or were they here, the voices and the wings ? — 
Not yours, beloved birds ! Not yours that beat 
Gray through the wind and wet, in search of 

me. — 
Lady of Heaven! Forgive me that I slept, 
Forgetful of thy birds, to call them in 
And break my bread with them. — 

(He goes to the shelf, and taking the loaf down, 
breaks and scatters it from the doorway, after- 
wards closing the door.) 

Take all,— take all ! 

For I have slept ; and I am filled indeed, 

With manna and with light. 

Yet, O thou Blessed ! 



12 THE WINGS. 

If my poor prayer and longing may avail, 
Like hands of need, dragging thy garment's 

hem, 
Vouchsafe to me, here in my wilderness, 
One sign to ease the hunger of my heart, 
That calls and echoes, prays and hears the 

prayer, 
Echoed and ebbing, till it surge again; 
High tide, — low tide, — but never any word. 
High tide, — low tide ; never a face to see ! 

{He comes down to the bench. From his taper he 
lights the lanthorn, and sets it by; then rever- 
ently he lifts the covering-cloth from the stone, 
to look upon his work.) 

Our Lady of all Comfort. Rose of Heaven ! 
Could I but make her, here, as in my dream. 
That blessed Face, — the stone should put forth 

might 
Unto blind eyes, and they would look, and see ! 
Ah, when? — Poor scribbled track, sore pitiful. 
Of wingless longing! Here the Face should 

be; 
With this gray blankness where the eyes 

would shine. 
More lovely blue than ever twilight sea. 
And here v/ould be her hair ; — a golden wave 
Of sunset, ebbing redly in the west . . . 
Her hair. . . . But never can I make her 

hands. 
Like to those palest roses that did grow 
Close to the Abbey wall. . . . Ah, could I 

know. 
Even in a dream ! Since unto lowlier men 
Than blessed Luke, she hath vouchsafed to see 
Her very face. — Comfort this halting tool, — 
Quicken this stone ! Let not the earth go dark 
Of such a likeness for men's hearts to keep, 
Beautiful, on the altar of that temple 



THE WINGS. 13 

Whose walls be blazoned with the shapes of 

earth, — 
Scribbled and scarred with basest names and 

things, 
Foul upon clear ! — Even as my Dream did fade 
When some voice in my soul, more ware than I, 
Thrust me avv^ake, crying, " ^Ifric — the 

King!" 
And I awoke, and heard no more. — 

(Lifting his face with shut eyes.) 

Let be ! 

There shall no hurt come near my dream of 

thee ; 
But I will count a thousand dawning suns, 
Patient, so be that on some dawn of day. 
Thou lean from out of heaven, and I may see 
Thy face like dawn above thy Star-in-the-East, 
Mother of all the motherless, — God's Mother! 
And still, though I should count the thousand 

years, 
Still shall my heart be ready. 

(The wind shakes the door; and the gulls go by.) 

— Ah, the wings ! 

Ever thy birds, the while I hark for thee. 
Never thy word, but only call of birds. 
And waves and wind, and evermore the wings 
Of sea-gulls that I hear with quickened heart 
Of hope: because they knock upon my door, 
Knocking and mocking, ever ! Be it so. — 
Lady of Heaven, beside thy flock of stars. 
Who broodest over this mid-world as though 
It were an ailing lamb, I wait for thee. 
I harken, and my heart is at the gate . . . 
My soul doth wait, as a poor vacant chamber. 
With the door wide like famine, but for thee; 



14 THE WINGS. "^ ^^"^ 

Ay, and the torches waiting for a fire 
White from the stars, — not breathing, save for 
thee. 

Moon of Pity, if this loneliness, 

And the sore heart of man that knows but how 
To seek a home, can ever draw thee down, 
Lean from thy glory with thy mother-looks ; — 
Lean down to bless, — follow thy pity, down, — 

Down to this solitude. Let me once look 

On Thee ! 

(A knocking on the door. Cerdic looks up with 
fixed eyes. The door swings open, and 
Edburga stands on the threshold, her veil 
shadowing her face, the two long golden braids 
hanging below, upon her breast. — She steps in, 
and stands regarding him for a moment; then 
speaks in a voice without emotion of any kind.) 

Edburga. 

Knowest thou me? 

(Cerdic, as in a trance, crosses his arms on his 
breast. His face grows radiant with beatitude. 
Without giving sign of her bewilderment, 
Edburga comes forward slowly, facing him. 
Then she loosens the veil from her head and 
the cloak from her shoulders. They fall about 
her feet; she stands richly arrayed. Cerdic 
sinks upon his knees.) 

Behold me. . . . Thou art Cerdic. 
Cerdic {in a far-off voice). 

Lady, thou knowest. 
Edburga. 

Yea, thou hast well said. 

1 know thee what thou art. Thou dost not 

know 
What I am. — Dost thou dream? 



THE WINGS. 15 

Cerdic. 

It well may be . . . 

I dream. 
Edburga. 

Wake then. For thou shouldst know me, 
Cerdic. 

{He does not move. She regards him with a closer 
curiosity. ) 

Make me some firelight here. For I am cold. 
Cerdic. 

Lady, have pity that my heart is shamed 
And my poor home is witless of the fire, 
What warmth may be. I had no thought — of 

this. 
Edburga. 

Wake, Cerdic. 'Tis no dream. Albeit thine 

eyes 
Never looked yet on mine. Guess, who am I? 
Thy lips have used my name. Why art thou 

dumb 
But now? 

(He answers in a joyful prayer.) 

Cerdic. 

Thy grace must needs unseal this mouth. 
Thou knowest. — Give me leave to tell of thee. 
In words like golden harp-strings ; but to tell 
How all the air is summer with thy coming, 
And morn doth flush the furrows of the sea ! 
Yea, how thy voice hath fallen, like white 

manna. 
To fill the craving hunger of the soul 
That longed for God and thee. 

(She recoils with sudden contemptuous laughter.) 

Edburga. ^ ^ , 
Nay, for us twain! 



i6 THE WINGS. 

This, then, is Holy Cerdic, who would look 
Upon no woman ! . . . Thou, who wouidst 

have us 
Forswear all earth, for heaven somewhere out- 
side, 
Tell me, O wise one, of this precious rede : — 
How to keep both, shut fast in godly hands ! 

(Cerdic, stricken aghast, reaches towards the fal- 
len mantle and touches it in horror, to make 
sure. As his vision breaks, he rises and stands 
back, striving to master his anguish.) 

Dreaming, good sooth ! You touch it, to make 

sure. 
Dreamer of far-off women ? But this dream 
Is a true dream ; as I am very Woman. 
Nor shalt thou bid me go till I have said. 
So mild thou wert, before I made me known ! 
Cerdic (gravely). 
Known, maiden? 

(She regards him keenly; then goes to the door, 
shuts it, and turns towards him, with triumph 
growing in her looks.) 

Edburga. 

Nay, then ! — I will tell thee more. 

How shouldst thou know me? I am the first 

woman, 
Haply, thine eyes have met; and so, like Eve, 
Older and wiser than thou ! — I come to tell, 
First, of the few, far things thou dost not 

know ; 
Then, of thyself, thou knowest less than 

all; . . . 
Then . . . what a pitiful King's Counsellor 
Thou wert, — too craven to behold a woman ! 



THE WINGS. 17 

Cerdic. 

No longer give I counsel, well or ill, 

Unto the King. Another counsellor 

He hath preferred before me; for whose sake 

I am an exile, and this place my home. 

Edburga. 

Haply it was Edburga? 

Cerdic. 

Even she, — 

The King's Edburga. — If I have been craven, 

Speak out thy hurt. For I will hear, and learn. 

{He lights the lamp also, from the lanthorn; then 
stands with his arms folded, looking at her 
calmly. She begins zvith a cold irony that 
grows passionate.) 

Edburga. 

Ay, learn. — If that Edburga drave thee here, 
Bethink thee, that Edburga was a woman. 
Learn that there was some strength around her 

then. 
Stronger than thou, to drive thee from his 

heart — 
.^If ric the King's — and from the city gate ! — 
The woman's strength, the one might that is 

Woman. 
And though ye give and take us as your own. 

What is it that ye flee from and ye fear ? 

Dreading this . . . Softness, once it be un- 
chained ! 
Con thy blank heart. For I will write in it 
The runes that might unriddle thee the world; 
And thou shalt ponder them, one little hour, 
Looking upon me. — Nay, I do not come. 
Save but in hatred. Thou art safe from all 
Thy heart can fear, and long for — and despise ! 
I hate thee ; and I tell thee ; and I come 



i8 THE WINGS. 

To speak thee sooth, and at my going hence 

To leave full goodly token that I hate. — 

But thou, look back and be the wiser, — thou ! 

When I did enter, ere we came to speech. 

What was it bowed thy knees before me here 

Against thy will? Thou'rt dumb. Why then, 
poor clod, 

What, but this weird which thou couldst never 
face ? — 

This little power-and-glory-all-for-naught ! 

What save one Woman? And that one, to 
thee, 

The basest woman-weed in all the world! — 

Edburga ! 
Cerdic. 

Ah, my God! No, no. 

Edburga. 

The King's — ;. ' . 

The King's Edburga! 
Cerdic {apart). \ 

Ah, forgive — forgive ... 
Edburga. 

Prayest me now forgiveness ? 
Cerdic {sternly). 

Nay, not thee! 

Not thee. 
Edburga. 

Then haply heaven: that thou wert moved 

By this poor beauty that I wear upon me ? — 

Waste not thy prayer. The peril that I bring 

Is nothing strange ; 'tis old and grim and free. 

Have I not said, I come to tell thee of it ? — 

And what I am that reckon with thee? 
Cerdic. 

Speak. 
Edburga. 

I am Edburga, and the daughter of Ulf. 

My mother was a slave. For she was sold, 



r THE WINGS. 19 

And given in her youth unto Svanfleda, 
Sister of Ulf, — a just and holy woman; 
Who bought and set her free, for Ulf to wed, — 
And had it written in the gospel-book, — 
When that his heart clave to her. — That, O 

monk, 
Thou canst but hear, not heed ! And I was 

grown, 
When Ulf came to be made an ealdorman. 
And Bertric would have taken me to wife. 
Save that I came before the eyes of ^Ifric 
The King; and so . . . 
— What are you, men and monks, 
That you may give us unto such an one 
To bind your lands together ? Or to bring 
The sum of twenty spears or more, to follow 
You, at the man-hunt? — Women bring you 

forth, 
As Darkness cherishes the doomful light 
Of the Sun, that being grown, shakes his bright 

locks 
And puts all to the sword ! — I'll not be given 
To Bertric, would that Bertric have me now : — 
I, a free-woman, and the gladlier free, 
That being yet unborn, I was a slave ! 
I am a creature rooted in the dark. 
But born to sunlight and the noble air. 
I will to give ; and I will not be given. 
I fear not right nor left, nor east, nor west ; 
Nor thee ! — For that I have is all mine own 
To give or keep. And I am all I have. 
And I am ^Ifric's, — for a kingly gift. 

(A bugle sounds distantly. Neither hears as they 
face each other fiercely.) 

I reck no more. But thou, thou shadow-thing, 

Unwitting what or men or shadows be. 

And ' hearing of my name and how time sped ', 



20 THE V/INGS. 

And fearing for the council and the peace, 
Thou wouldst have hurled my one gift of my- 
self 
Into the dust ; and called all men to see, 
And curse and stone me hence: and if thou 

couldst ! — 
As there were no degrees 'twixt mire and me. 

thou wise Cerdic, hear the end of this. 

For thy ' King's Peace,' thou hast so ploughed 

the state, 
And turned the people's heart against their 

King, 
That now they clamor for their holy man ! 
Like rain and snow, two names make dim the 

air 
With * Cerdic ' and * Edburga ' I 
Cerdic. 

1 knew not this. 
Edburga. 

Quoth he ! Thou hast it, now. Yet even so, 
Truly, thou wilt not come again, to rule ! . . . 
Thou piece of craft, I know thee. Dost thou 

think 
Cerdic shall win? Or, haply, base Edburga? 

The King is here, without . . . and nigh at 

hand. 
Coming with torches. 

(Lifts her hand to listen.) 

... Ay! 

Cerdic {dazed). 

The King is come. ... 
Edburga. 

Yea, so. — Tho' thou be traitor, he's a King ; 

And thou hast been a one-time counsellor. 

He comes to say farewell . . . And I am first, 

To shew thee something of this world, before 



THE WINGS. 21 

Thou tak'st thy leave for that far other world 

Thou knowst so well; — and liker home for 
thee, 

Than this warm Earth so full of seas and 
sun, — 

Too golden — like my hair ! . . . 

The tide is in. 

It was low water when I walked across ; 

But I did seal my name upon the shore ! 
Cerdic. 

/Elfric is come ... 
Edburga. 

I have said. — And ^Ifric's men. 
Cedric. 

Thou speakst not truly. ^Ifric is a king, 

Though he be young. 
Edburga. 

But, — Cerdic or Edburga ! 
Cerdic. 

Not thus for ^Ifric ! He bore love to me. 
Edburga. 

Ay, long ago. . . . For any of the earls 

He would not so have done. — It was for me. 

Save thyself, Holy Cerdic! — 

{She points to the door with ironic invitation. 
Cerdic turns towards the bench, and grasping 
his mallet, looks on the carven stone, lifting the 
cloth from it. She sees with amusement.) 

Let us see 

How monks may fight! . . . 

{He covers the stone and faces her with sudden in- 
dignation, still grasping his mallet.) 

Stout tools they look: and thou hast need of 

them. 
If thou wilt cling to such a meagre life, 



22 THE WINGS. 

Who scants a moment? Surely not the King! 
Yet dost thou look not now, as when I came, 
Kneeling adaze before me ! And belike 
I seemed not thus to thee. — What I did seem, 
I wonder yet, O blind man with new eyes ! — 
I wonder yet. 

{The Abbey bell sounds faintly far off. It is fol- 
lowed by confused sounds of approach.) 

Cerdic. 

Hear, then! Thou sayst truth: — 

How much of truth I may have time to tell 

thee, 
Thou bitter truth, Edburga ! — When I kneeled, 
Not knowing, — for my heart was worn with 

dreams, 
Mine eyes were worn with watching, — I had 

prayed 
Only to hear one knock upon the door ; 
Only to see one Vision, that I strove 
To carve there on the stone. . . . There came 

a knock. 
There stood one ... at the door. — And I 

looked up. 
And saw in thee what I had prayed to see ; — 
And knew not what I saw, believing thee — 
God rede to me this day in Paradise 
The meaning of that mock! — believing thee 
The Vision ... of all pity and all grace, 
The Blessed One, the Mother of Our Lord! — 
Edburga. 

Out ! Mock me not. — Be still — 
Cerdic (with anguish). 
The Blessed One ! — 

Believing thee ... the Mother of Our 
Lord! . . . 
(Edburga gives a strange cry and falls huddled 
against the door, with her veil gathered over 



r THE WINGS. 23 

her face, as Cerdic breaks the stone into frag- 
ments. — There is a bugle-blast without, and the 
sound of voices and steel; then a blow upon the 
door. Cerdic hurls away the mallet.) 

Could spears bite out this broken heart of a 

fool, 
And tear it from me! — 
Bid them in. . 

Voice (without). 
Come forth! 

{Enter ^lfric alone. The open door shows the 
torches outside. Cerdic faces him, sternly 
motionless. Edburga is crouched by the door- 
way, her face covered. The King looks from 
one to other in amazement.) 

^LFRIC. 

Where was thy signal? Twice I sounded 
horn. — 

{To Cerdic.) 

I bade thee forth. Why cam'st thou not ? 

Is Cerdic 
Afraid to die? — 

. . . What makes Edburga here? 
Thou wert to give me signal. . . . What be- 
fell? 
Thou cowering in thy veil ? When have I seen 
This thing ? — Speak ! — 
Edburga {faintly). 

2E\iv\c . . . 

i^LFRIC. 

Up ! Rise up and speak. 
Come forth, out of thy veil I 
Edburga. 

I cannot . , . 



24 THE WINGS. 

^LFRIC. 

Come. — ' ,.* 

. . . Look up. — 
Edburga. 

Let be. . . . Ah, ah ! . . . 
^LFRic (fiercely). 

Out . . . from thy veil ! 

(Still she shrinks, covered. He turns on Cerdic, 
drawing his sword with a cry.) 

Thou diest ! — 

(Edburga flings herself against him and clasps his 
knees, reaching up towards his arm. ) 

Edburga. 

No, ^If ric, no. But give me time ! — Not yet. 

Let be ... I do not know ... I do not 
know , . . 

I cannot tell thee why . . . 
^lfric. 

Thou wilt not speak? 
Edburga. 

Yea, soon. ... Be patient, . . . hear! 

(In a gasping whisper.) 

. . . Put up thy sword. 

^LFRIC. 

Thou plead for him? Am I become thy fool? 
For he it was so called me, on a time ! — 
Speak. — Hath one hour stricken thy mind from 

thee? 
Art thou Edburga? And am I the King? 
What was the spell? — For whom was ambush 

set? 
Gods ! — I would make all sure^ but I am loath 
To shame the King I was, before my thanes. 



r------ THE WINGS. 25 

(He pushes the door shut and stands against it, 
holding his sword drawn.) 

Answer, Edburga. — Was't for me or thee, 
I took this errand on me? Thou hast said 
One of you twain must Uve, the other die. — 
To death with him. 
Edburga. 

It shall dishonor thee. 

i^LFRIC. 

Bid in the hands to do it. — For that cause 
Thou wouldst have had them hither. Let them 

be 
Dishonored ! So : — was it not all thy deed ? 

Edburga. 

Mine, mine, — not thine! But thou, undo my 

deed, 
And cast it from thee. — He hath spoken 

true . . . 
Not all, not all ! — But yet, 'tis I have clasped 
This mantle of dishonor round thy neck, 
That is so foul upon thee. — I saw not ; — 
But now I do behold . . . and all is strange. 
Yea, I hate Cerdic . . . and I hate myself . . . 
I bade thee do it, and I pray thee now, 
Hear me again, and do it not ! 

i^LFRic (as she clings to him again), 
Edburga ! 

Edburga. 

All I have asked of thee, — unto this hour. 
Put it away from thee and me, . . . away! 

^LFRIC. 

Edburga ! 

(She stands up, with a cry.) 

Edburga. 

Doubt me not. Thou dost believe! 



26 THE WINGS. 

I loved thee, and I love thee, and ... I love 

thee. — 
I loved thee that thou wert the kingliest man; 
And I have made thee lesser. — Be not . . . 

less. 
The people love thee yet. — Ah, but they shall ! 
I did not know . . . but now . . . 

(IVistfully) Thou wilt believe? — 
Undo me from thy neck. — Cast me away. — 
I love thee, and I know thou didst love me. — 
Cast me away ! — 

(Cerdic stretches his arms out to them, suddenly 
illumined with great joy.) 

Cerdic. 

O, woman ! — child. . . . God's child. 

(They turn to him, perplexed, Edburga sobbing at 
the feet of .^lfric.) 

Wilt thou forgive? 
Edburga ( doubting ) . 

Forgive thee, Cerdic ? . . . Ah ! . . . 
Cerdic. 

Then hear me ; and forgive when I have done. 
I took thee for a bitter mockery 
Of my fair dream. Thou wert to me one sent 
To bow my pride, who deemed my prayer 

could win 
The blessed Vision . . . 
So I let break the image that I strove 
To make of her; for that it was dishonored. 
I brake it . . . and my heart was sore 

abased. — 
Blest be that shame and sharpness! — This thy 

word 
Makes me to know the answer to the prayer, 



r THE WINGS. 27 

Now that I see, through all these sevenfold 
veils . . . 

The Likeness ! . . . 
Edburga. 

Nay, ... to Her? 
Cerdic. 

Even to her; 

Yea, and to Him who did so love the world : — 

Love, the one Likeness. . . . 
^LFRic {after a silence). 

Cerdic, thou shamest me. 

(He puts up his sword. Edburga hides her face 
against his knees.) 

Cerdic. 

Lift up her head, and set her by thy side. . . . 
Wed her. Whom thou hast humbled, lift her 

up.— 
The gift that thou hast taken, hold it high. 

^LFRIC. 

Come with us, Cerdic. — Be at our right hand. 
Cerdic. 

Not yet. For I have lived within a dream 
Too long. . . . Not yet know I enough of 

God, — 
Or men. 

(As they turn to go, Edburga leaves the King's 
arms irresolutely. She draws near the bench 
and gathers up the fragments of the broken 
stone to lay them together with a half-fearful 
touch, not looking at Cerdic. Exeunt Edburga 
and the King. — Cerdic follows them to the 
threshold, looking out, his hands held after 
them in farewell. There is a sharp command. 
The torches go, and the footsteps on the peb- 
bles. A gust of wind blows suddenly; and 



28 THE WINGS. 

Cerdic re-enters with a hurt sea-gull. There 
is the faint sound of the Abbey bell once. 
Cerdic comes slowly down towards the bench 
and the stone fragments, his face set, and the 
sea-gull held close to his breast. 

Ah, Thou ! — Have pity on all broken wings. 
CURTAIN. 



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